Daymare
by aMUSEment345
Summary: One shot. Post-ep 12X19, 'True North'. Reid suffers a crisis of identity.


_**Post-ep 12X19, True North**_

* * *

 _ **Daymare**_

It turned out that the nightmares of the innocent were nothing, compared with the nightmares of the guilty. The nightmares of the guilty came true, in daylight.

The truth was, he could no longer tell if he was awake or asleep. Some days, he wasn't so sure he could tell if he was dead or alive. Prison blue and prison green blended together both in front of and behind his eyes. The shouting and the screams of the others sounded from day into night and back again. Blood exuded from everyone he touched, from every orifice, including those carved with a shiv. Even the coppery odor of the blood followed him into the nether world, just as did the odor of the chemicals he'd mixed together.

He'd spurned visits ever since the incident, even from…. _especially_ from….his best friend. He'd done as she'd asked, and sketched the reminder of his last day together with his godsons. He'd visited that drawing daily… _hourly_ …for a few days. But the effect of it had worn off, without the reinforcement of contact with her, and he'd had to admit to himself that it was a lie. A false portrait. The people in that drawing were all innocent, and free. And he was no longer either. It wouldn't do, to hold their memory together with that of what he'd done. He couldn't have them tainted like that. And so, he'd closed the journal one night, and not opened it again. And since, he'd tried to close his heart as well. It wouldn't do to house their love in a heart so blackened.

Every day, he walked past his sins. Every day, he saw them lying in their hospital beds, suffering. And every day, he passed off a handful of towels to an orderly, wondering which one held the smile. The _red_ smile. The crescent-shaped lips colored by blood from the neck of Luis Delgado, soaked into the fabric as the man lay dying.

Every night, he visited Luis in his dreams. And Calvin. And Malcolm. And Nadie. Four virtual strangers joining his beloved Maeve in haunting his sleep.

He no longer shook himself awake, when the frightening images came. Shaking awake was for those visited by _undeserved_ nightmares. It was not for those who had _become_ the nightmare. It was not for the guilty.

* * *

He'd been told he had a visitor. As he had been doing, he'd refused, at first. But then, they'd explained that it was his doctor who was there to see him. A woman. And still, his inclination had been to refuse.

"I didn't ask for a doctor. I don't _need_ a doctor. They have doctors _here_. "

 _And, besides, what's wrong with me can't be fixed._

He knew it had to be a ruse of some sort.

 _It's probably Emily, pretending._

It had to be Emily. He couldn't picture Penelope Garcia trying to play such a role. And, having refused her visits seven days in a row, he was certain it wouldn't be JJ. He hoped she had given up on him, as he'd prayed she would. She was better off without him.

Then his brain began to offer other suggestions. Maybe it _was_ a real doctor.

 _Maybe Savannah? Or Linda Kimura? Or Nadie Ramos?_

Nadie Ramos. The nightmare, become a daymare.

In the end, curiosity won the day, and he'd finally agreed to see his visiting doctor. And been completely surprised to see who it was. Not that he should have been.

 _How many years have I touted myself as 'doctor' because of my PhDs?_

He'd forgotten that Tara Lewis owned one as well.

Tara stood, and greeted him, and took careful note that he failed to greet her in return. Instead, he issued a quick, "It's better if everybody stays away from me right now", and turned back toward the door.

He looked terrible. Extremely stressed. Clearly sleep-deprived, his hair disheveled, his face unshaven, his gait shuffling, his posture…..

 _His posture is slumped, but not completely. His head is bowed, but his shoulders are back. There's still something of the Spencer I've come to know in there._

So she set to work trying to convince him to participate in a cognitive interview. His initial reaction was to refuse, to remind her that it hadn't worked, even when the memory had been much fresher in his mind. But she'd rebutted his arguments with logic. And, finally, he'd agreed. That he responded, that his brain could still process a logical thought, heartened her.

Which was fortunate, as it turned out. Because it would be the only good news she would be bringing back to the BAU.

* * *

He'd killed her. He'd killed Nadie Ramos. He was a murderer. His hand had lifted a knife and brought it down upon her torso more than twenty-five times. He'd watched it happen, just now, in his mind's eye. Once recalled, the image refused to leave him. His brain played it over, and over, and over, and over again.

The only reprieve occurred when his mind flashed back.

' _Do you know how physically exhausting it would be to stab someone seventy-one times?'_

It was something he'd said to Morgan, years ago. A schizophrenic…..an _insomniac_ schizophrenic…had stabbed a victim repeatedly...seventy-one times. At the time of that case, Reid had been suffering blinding headaches, and had been frightened that they'd been the harbinger of his own imminent diagnosis. His curiosity about the superhuman strength of their unsub had been more than professional. It had been personal. And he'd wondered.

' _If it happens to me, will I kill, too? Will I lose my mind, some day, and overpower some innocent woman and stab her, over and over, and over again?'_

Today, he had his answer.

* * *

He'd fled from the meeting room as quickly as a prisoner _could_ flee. Now, alone in his cell, he needed to move once again. But there was only so far one could move in an eight by eight space. So he paced, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, while he waited for the wild jumble of mental images and emotions to form into some semblance of thought.

He'd already been mentally and emotionally exhausted. As he continued to pace, physical exhaustion joined the others. The depletion of energy slowed him internally, and he began to be able to think. Unfortunately.

 _I killed someone. I know I've killed before. It was hard enough to process then, even when it was in defense of myself or someone else. But I have now killed an innocent. Someone who was actually helping me. Someone whose entire life was devoted to helping save other people's lives. And I killed her. It isn't a mistake that I'm where I am. I am where I belong. I am a murderer._

And thus began a mantra.

 _I am a murderer. I killed. I murdered. I killed. I am a murderer._

He said it to himself, over and over again, trying to process it. Trying to name his new identity. Trying to _own_ that new identity.

 _I am a murderer. I killed. I murdered. I killed. I am a murderer._

 _No wonder I was able to do what I did to the other inmates. No wonder I didn't hesitate. I told myself it was all part of my trying to survive. But now I know…..it's just my nature._

He began to pace again. He needed to move. He needed to do... _something,_ but he had no idea _what_ to do. He had a head full of knowledge, and not a single idea. Until it came to him.

 _I need to say goodbye. I need to let them go. I need to let that life go._ This _is my life now._

When he'd tried to reject Tara earlier in the day, when he'd rejected each of JJ's visits over the past week, there had been some part of him still holding on to that old life. Some part of him that had seen his current situation as temporary.

' _It's better if everybody stays away from me right now,'_ he'd said. ' _Right now'_. Not ' _forever_ '.

Except, now it _was_ forever. It would have to be.

So, he stopped his pacing, and he pulled his journal out from under his pillow, and tore a few pages from the back of it. Then he took up his pencil, and set about his task.

* * *

Tara was unfazed by the development with Reid. Her work had brought her into contact with a great many prisoners, both innocent and not. She'd recognized the fine line she'd been walking with Reid. His utter exhaustion could have worked in their favor, by relaxing his mind. Or it could have worked against them, by making his thoughts completely addled. To her regret, it had done both.

Or maybe Scratch had.

"I haven't known him anywhere near as long as some of you have," she'd told Emily. "But I can tell when I'm interviewing someone who is repressing fear, versus someone who is repressing guilt. He was afraid of what he would see. But he didn't do it. I'm convinced of it."

"Well, see if you can't convince _him_ , then. Go back tomorrow and try again. And, Tara?"

"Yes?"

"I don't think the others need to know what he remembered. I did tell them you'd be trying a cognitive with him, but… if you don't mind, just tell them that you're going to have to try again tomorrow."

There were a couple of particular (blonde) 'others' who would be devastated to hear of Reid's memory and his response to it. And Emily was fearful that at least one of them would be up at Millburn, beating down the door, lockdown or no.

 _I'll tell them if and when I have to. But not until._

So, when Tara's phone sounded a text from JJ a few hours later, she was wary.

DID YOU SEE HIM? WAS HE OKAY? IS HE SLEEPING? DO YOU THINK HE WOULD SEE ME?

Tara responded as Emily had suggested.

HE AGREED TO TRY. SLOW GOING. WILL TRY AGAIN TOMORROW.

PLEASE ASK HIM TO SEE ME. TELL HIM I WON'T STAY LONG, AND I WON'T TALK ABOUT ANYTHING HE DOESN'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT. I JUST NEED TO SEE HIM.

I'LL TRY. BUT DON'T TAKE IT PERSONALLY. PRISON HAS A WAY OF WEARING PEOPLE DOWN. THAT'S ALL IT IS.

THAT'S WHAT I'M AFRAID OF. ALL RIGHT. WHATEVER HE WANTS. PLEASE TELL HIM HIS MOM IS OKAY.

After a few minutes, JJ added to her text. AND PLEASE TELL HIM I LOVE HIM.

* * *

Three letters had been quickly composed, one to each of his three new colleagues. Then had come the hard part.

Writing to Morgan, and Garcia, and Rossi, and Emily, had proven to be logarithmically more difficult than writing to Tara, and Luke and Stephen. There was simply too much history, too much shared life experience, too much attachment, for letting go to be easy. With a great deal of sorrow, he'd apologized to each of them, thanked them for their friendship, and their mentorship, and asked them to forget they'd ever known him.

'I'm sorry I'm not who you thought I was. It turns out, I'm not who _I_ thought I was, either. But I think it's best if you just move on in your lives. Don't try to visit, don't write. Just erase me.'

 _Believe me, if I could just erase myself, I would._

When a part of his brain started to actually make a plan about that, he pushed it aside. Maybe he _would_ do something about it, one day. But not until they'd let go of him. Not until it wouldn't hurt them, even more than he'd hurt them already.

With all of that behind him, it was time for the most difficult parts of the task. He'd put off the final two letters as long as he could. Writing to Emily, and especially to Morgan, had been exquisitely painful. But now….now it was time to write to the two people who loved him the most, and whom he loved.

He began his letter to JJ just as he had the letters to the others, hoping the use of the same words would propel him through it. But they wouldn't. They couldn't. Because there were things he needed to say to her that he'd not needed to say to the others.

'I have no right to ask this of you. The truth is, I've never had any right to ask any of the things I've asked of you. I've presumed on our friendship. And I'm sorry, but I need to do it again.

'I don't have the words to thank you for everything you've done for my mother. Not that I deserve to have my mind eased, but your care of her has done that. And now, I need to ask you to do more. There is a Dr. Norman at Bennington Sanitarium in Las Vegas. He was my mom's doctor for all the years she was there. I think he might help you get her back there. It would be the best place, she was happy there.

 _Until I completely wrecked both of our lives._

'I honestly don't know what you should tell her. I can't think straight enough right now. But I trust you completely, and I've been on the receiving end of your wisdom often enough that I know you'll make the right decision. There is a fund for her, I think it was set up by my father. I can sign it over to you. And you'll have the money from my apartment, and my car….and there are some books that are pretty valuable. It should be enough to see her to the end. I'm so sorry to have burdened you with this. But I can't think of anyone I trust more than you, and you're the only one she feels comfortable with.

'The boys. I know Henry is too old to just forget about me, but he will, in time. It's best if he does. And it's best if Michael just doesn't really know about me at all. I know I've failed them as a godfather. I think…..if you want…..you could ask someone else to replace me. Maybe Morgan. He's a great dad, I know he'd be a great godfather. I just..

Reid wasn't quick enough to swipe at the tear that had just brimmed his eye, and it fell to the paper, creating a smudge in the scrawl on the page. He thought, briefly, to start over. But some remnant of his former self longed for the connection it would bring to her, as she read his words, and fingered the paper they were on. So he simply blotted at it, and continued writing.

'I just wish I had realized who I was, back then. I would never have put myself in Henry's life. I would never have risked him knowing me. Nor Michael, either. So, I think it's better if you don't speak of me. Don't remind them. They'll forget, soon enough. I hope their lives are happy, and productive. I hope they know love...I know they will. How could they not, with you as their mother? I hope they continue to bring much joy into your life. That's my wish for you, JJ, believe it or not. I wish you joy.'

This time, he was quicker, and he caught the tears before they hit the page. When he felt it was safe, he closed the letter.

'I don't think I could possibly tell you what you've meant to me. There aren't words that go deep enough. So, all I can say...and I know it doesn't mean so much coming from someone who's done what I've done...but….I do love you. Always have, always will. And, because of that, I need to set you free. Please don't come, or call, or write. Go on with your life. Be a great mom. Be a great profiler. Just be you. That's more than enough. It's always been more than enough for me.'

He signed it, and laid it on the rest, and had to pause for a long while, to recover from what it had cost him. Then, it was time for the final letter. This one would have to be straightforward, so as not to confuse the recipient. But it still broke the heart of its composer.

'Dear Mom,

'It looks like I'm going to have to be away for a lot longer than I thought. So I don't think it's fair for you to be stuck in my apartment all by yourself, even if you like Cassie. If it's okay with you, I thought maybe you would like to go back to Bennington. I think Dr. Norman probably misses you, after all these years, and you probably miss your old home.

'Please listen to JJ. She'll take care of everything. She'll make sure you have what you need. She'll take care of you just as well as I would ….better, probably. You can tell her anything, and call her any time. She's special that way.

'I'm sorry if you're disappointed. It's all my fault. If I could make it up to you, I would. Please forgive me. And please know that I love you. In my entire life, I've never known anyone with more courage. And I've never been loved more. Thank you, Mom.

'Your son, Spencer'

The letters finished, Reid folded each of them and tucked them back into his journal. He would buy envelopes and stamps in the prison commissary the next chance he had.

* * *

Chagrin. Annoyance. Despair. The three emotions competed for prominence as Reid was led down the hallway to a visiting room once again. He'd told Tara they were done. Now she was here again.

"I told you, it's no good. You should all just stay away from me. Forget about me."

But she was insistent. She knew him, she said. He was incapable of murdering someone.

"You have no idea what I'm capable of," he spat at her. _He'd_ had no idea either, until yesterday.

Tara didn't take the bait. She kept her voice calm, and steady, and appealed to whatever remnant of logical thought remained in Reid's brain.

"I'm sure you've had to do things in here that make you feel guilty. Ashamed."

Her heart breaking when the expression on his face told her how on target she'd been.

"Your brain has to do something with that guilt. Sometimes it spreads it around, to other places. Places where it doesn't belong."

He could barely hear her over the cacophony of recrimination echoing through his mind. He _had_ done things that made him feel guilty and ashamed. Because he _was_ guilty. And he _should_ be ashamed.

She could see that he hadn't processed her words, so she repeated them, more forcefully this time. The gambit worked. The words penetrated. And they _resonated_ with Reid. He did, after all, have a degree in psychology. He was familiar with the concept.

Tara read the change in his body language, and proceeded as though he'd spoken, before he could deny her.

"The only way to find out is to go back to that room. Are you willing to do it?"

He took so long to respond that she feared the answer would be 'no'. But he nodded. So she pressed.

"Let me hear you say it."

He did. "I want to go back."

And, when he did, his life spun on its axis once again, as quickly and as totally as it had the day before.

The memory had changed.

And, just maybe, so had the rest of his life.

* * *

Back in his cell, Reid pulled out his journal once again. Using both hands, he lifted it by its covers, and shook the letters free. He gathered them, and read through them, brought to tears every now and then. They'd been written by a condemned man. Now, they were being read by a man holding on to just the slimmest ray of hope.

He might _not_ have killed Nadie Ramos. The only thing that was really clear was that he couldn't trust his memory. But it was just possible that he still _was_ who he'd always thought he was, that he still _was_ the man he'd always aspired to be.

Except that he _had_ hurt his fellow inmates. He'd hurt them, before they could hurt him, a second time. But he hadn't killed. Did that make a difference?

For now, he would hold on to the letters. Maybe they _would_ each see an envelope, and a stamp. But maybe they wouldn't have to. Maybe they would leave the world as shredded as he'd felt when he'd written them.

Reid propped his pillow against the wall, and leaned back into it. Then he opened the journal once again, and laid it on his lap. He turned to the center, where a drawing spilled across both pages. And he looked at the birds, and the sun, and the trees, and three of the people he loved most in all the world.

And he held on to that ray of hope with both hands.


End file.
